


More than Life Itself

by theycallmeDernhelm (onyourleft084)



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Death, Drinking, Drunk!Bard, Even Sigrid curses, Lots of Cursing, M/M, No Smut, but not really idk, dealing with immortality, grown men acting kinda bratty, hot dads, middle-earth, oh how the tables can turn, post-BotFA, relationship drama, semi-au, sorta hurt/comfort, the afterlife
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-23
Updated: 2015-03-23
Packaged: 2018-03-19 05:24:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3597999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onyourleft084/pseuds/theycallmeDernhelm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So it's gonna be forever, or it's gonna go down in flames? Possibly the latter. Hence, Bard tries to sever ties with Thranduil before mortality ruins it for the both of them. Rated T for language.</p>
            </blockquote>





	More than Life Itself

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Phoebe_Hunter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phoebe_Hunter/gifts), [LittleLynn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleLynn/gifts).



> First Barduil fic. Yay. These boys, I swear to God.
> 
> The tone of this work changes throughout, and I apologize for that. Clearly I don't know what I'm doing, but I sure love doing it-- although even I'm not the biggest fan of how this ended. Feedback would be appreciated :)

This had to stop before one of them got hurt.

Back when it had started out, four months, five months ago (Bard wasn't really keeping track, a telltale sign that he was getting carried away) it had been almost nothing. He and Thranduil were allies, nothing more, and there was an entire world's difference between them. But despite that, there ended up a bond between them anyway. A bond forged by striking similarities that were tempered by glaring differences, by strong wine in the evenings and political discussions in the day. A sweet, mocking sort of friendship that all at once careened into heightened affection and deep desire and everything in between. Firm handshakes exchanged for slow kisses and titles like 'my lord' replaced by an assortment of endearments: darling, love, meleth nin, you take your pick.

They laid their hopes and weaknesses and odd quirks on the table like a game of cards, rendering themselves bare and vulnerable, because loving one another was a gamble indeed but neither of them was ever going to play anything other than the honest truth.

It wasn't supposed to be serious, it was just supposed to be fun, sharing everything from a lake to a dislike of dwarves to Bard's unruly offspring (they were onboard with this relationship thing from day one) between them.

But one day Bard catches himself staring at his elf-king (not for the first time) and seeing just about everything he's ever wanted, everything he never wants to lose, thinking _god he looks like starlight and Mithril but he's fragile deep inside._ He wants to spend forever with the man, for Valar's sake.

The thing is, they don't have forever, do they?

With this realization, the world pretty much comes crashing down around his god-awful rabbit-fur boots.

He's an archer, with an archer's foresight. If this carries on, one of them's going to get hurt, and Bard has a pretty good idea of which one of them it's going to be. That's exactly what he tells Thranduil.

"You think I'm going to hurt you?" Is the first thing Thranduil says. They're standing at the usual balcony in Thranduil's palace, drinking as is their routine, and Bard's pretty sure he's fucked up any chance of a potential make-out session.

"No. Yes. No. Of course not. I am talking about me." Bard swallows. "I am. I'm going to hurt you. Whether I want to or not."

"You're not making any sense." Thranduil is ready to scoff and order for more wine, as per his usual solution to dealing with drama, but Bard puts his foot down. This is serious shit.

"Because you aren't listening." The tone in his voice is enough to catch the elf's attention again, making his head snap up abruptly, blue eyes locking into Bard's brown ones and making him feel--

Goddammit! Not. Fucking. Now.

He tries again. "I'm not immortal. Not like you are. And one day I will die." The words force their way out, in the painful way that they do when they really need to be said. "Now look me straight in the eye and tell me that does not hurt to think of."

Bard sees it; an expression of pain flit quickly and subtly across Thranduil's fair face. It dawns on him that the elf, with all his wisdom, with all his experience, hasn't even thought this one through.

"See?" He's a grown man, and it's not in his nature to whine (that's Thranduil's thing, really) but there's a whining tone in Bard's voice now. "It will happen, you know that. And it's going to leave you hurt. Thinking about you being hurt hurts me." The lump in his throat is making it harder and harder to speak. "And you've-- you have lost enough, Thranduil. I cannot do this to you."

Bard's standing yards away from the elf even if all he wants to do is get in close and kiss him hard. Thranduil looks nothing short of thrown, of confused, of betrayed.

"Bard." It's testament to how lucky the mortal really is. Anyone else who tries to walk away from the elf king without giving him the last word would otherwise be met with cold fury, but Thranduil's voice is far from furious. "We can discuss this further. Please stay."

"I cannot." He does not meet Thranduil's eyes. It's final.

Thranduil just nods. "Fine. If that is what you wish." He looks up. "You're right, after all."

"I'm sorry. I have to go. Um." Bard turns. Away from those softly pleading blue eyes. "Goodbye."

It's a cowardly thing to do, but it has to be done.

 

Almost as soon as he gets back home Bard regrets everything-- everything that happened, everything he said. He retires to bed without so much as giving little Tilda a good-night kiss, and the two older kids exchange a knowing glance: _mm-hmm, father's having boy trouble._

Thranduil, alone, finishes the wine, berating himself for letting Bard walk away like that, berating himself for falling so hard and feeling so much for a man whose life is like a mayfly's next to a dragon's. The painful reality stares him cold and unfeeling in the face, and with a flick of his wrist Thranduil sends the flagon tumbling over the side of the table and crashing to the floor.

He clenches his fist, trying to retain control, but reminding himself that for all his immortality and power there are some things he really can't. Like a wandering son. The choices of a man. The grasp of time. Self-pity isn't one of the things a king should wallow in, but Thranduil, buzzed with the effects of the wine, wallows anyway.

His queen, his prince, his king.

_Why does everybody end up leaving me?_

 

~

"You should go back to him."

"I cannot, Sigrid. I already left."

"You could go back. He would take you back, I'm sure of it."

Bard shakes his head. "No. This is for the best."

He's surprised by the girl slamming her fist on the table. "Dammit, Da." Thank goodness it's just the two of them sitting there, or Tilda would have jumped out of her skin and started crying. Sigrid's voice is low with frustration. "You keep saying you don't want to hurt him, but you just did. You just walked away! Goddammit."

Bard stares. His father's instinct takes over. "Sigrid. Don't curse."

She glares. "How could you do that? How could you do that to someone who loves you?"

It clicks in the back of Bard's mind. Out of all his children, she was the one most affected by the fact that Thranduil's son had left him, especially since she knew he was all he had left.

She walks away before they can talk further, but Bard knows she's right.

Tonight, he tells himself. Apologize tonight. Ride all the damn way to Bree and buy a bottle of their best brew and offer it to the Elf-King. A peace offering, an apology present, a love token, all in one. Tell him you're sorry, tell him you were just scared, tell him you never want to let him go. Drink. Make out. And never walk out of his life again.

Bard does just that. His resolve flickers momentarily when he gets to the palace, bottle in hand, and learns that Thranduil already occupied elsewhere. But he's let into the king's chambers anyway. To wait.

 

Thranduil finds him at their usual drinking table on the balcony, an almost-empty bottle in his hand.

"Bard." The name tumbles out in a gasp of surprise, of relief, of _I expected to never see you again, but thank God you're here._ His heart beats so hard that it begins to ache with longing in his chest. He'd gone the whole day trying not think about the bowman that seeing him here in their usual spot is like a blessing or a dream or a figment of imagination. Bard looks up, eyes red.

Has he been crying?

Definitely crying.

"Are you all right?" Thranduil ventures. He approaches carefully, almost like a trainer with an animal, scarcely believing he's got him back and hoping to keep him here longer.

"Um." Bard holds up the bottle. "I brought you this. But you took a while, so I...got started on it, and..." He groans softly. "I'm sorry. So sorry. About everything."

There's a long pause; Thranduil has no idea what to say. But Bard covers it.

"I love you, you know," he says, almost like he's resigned to the fact. But he tilts his head up, meeting Thranduil's eyes, and past the drunken and weary redness Thranduil can tell he's never been more honest.

"Yes," Thranduil says softly. "And I love you. More than anything." He takes the bottle and puts it away. "More than life itself." He slides an arm around the bowman's strong shoulders and helps him to his feet.

"Even if?" Bard doesn't continue his sentence, but Thranduil understands. Even if his time will run out? Even if he'll die, dooming the elf-king to loneliness once more?

"Even if."

Bard nods. Thranduil sets him down on a chair.

"Gods. I am so drunk right now," he mumbles.

"I'll look after you," Thranduil promises, kneeling by him.

"Should be home by now. My children..."

"I'll look after them too. I was a father once. I could do it again." He smiles right into Bard's face, a soft and tender smile. "Well. If you will let me, of course."

"'Course," Bard slurs.

Silence.

Again, Bard breaks it. "I'll die one day. I'll leave you and the kids and I'll slip away."

"Then I will hold you all the tighter," comes Thranduil's assuring response.

Bard's hand reaches out and wraps itself around Thranduil's. It feels like one end of a promise, and Thranduil seals it by putting his free hand over Bard's. "I'm not leaving you."

He can distinctly see the tears at the edges of Bard's eyes. "I don't ever want to leave you. Don't ever want to hurt you." He falls silent at the touch of Thranduil's lips on his temple.

"Shh," soothes the elf-king gently. "You won't. You won't."

 

~

Oh, how the tables can turn.

The irony of it all pounds dull in the back of Bard's head eight years later, eight blissful, beautiful, happy years later, just when they were beginning to think they'd beaten fate and won infinity for themselves. His hands shake, barely able to bring themselves to touch Thranduil's face as he lies wounded. It's the cruel work of a Morgul blade; not even the acclaimed kingsfoil can save him now. The love of Bard's life is dying in front of him again, and again, there's nothing he can do to stop it.

The healers have left the room. They know. They grant the two kings one final moment together before it all goes downhill.

"It's not fair," Bard whispers, unable to keep his voice from shaking. "It was supposed to be me. I was always the one who should have gone first..."

"I know, Meleth-nin." Thranduil's voice is barely audible. He's slipping away, and Bard's desperate to hang on to him. Mere hours ago he seemed unbreakable like diamonds, now the Elvenking is as fragile as spun glass. Almost as transparent, too. It takes all his strength just to lift a hand and brush away Bard's tears with weak, pale fingers. Oh, he loves him so much, and cannot bear to cause him such pain, but the only thing worse than leaving Bard now is spending eternity without him. The thought brings Thranduil peace. 

"But it's better this way," Thranduil breathes. "You will see." His touch makes Bard shut his eyes, soaking up the sensation one last time, letting the grief break over him like a wave.

"Please stay," he begs hoarsely, fingers in Thranduil's pale hair, knowing deep down that no prayer can save his beloved now.

When he opens his eyes again, Thranduil's gone.

 

~

And death comes for Bard too, as it must for all men, but not till thirty years later. Not till the children have grown up and had their own children, and not till the pain of his lover's passing has settled into a bearable, constant ache deep in Bard's bones. It comes in his old age, gently and tenderly, and the last thing Bard thinks of is just how tired he really is.

But it's not over.

The first thing he feels after completely losing all feeling in his body are fingertips, smooth and gentle, touching his cheek, brushing over his lips. He knows exactly who it is before he even opens his eyes.

"Thranduil."

The elf laughs, a soft chuckle of sorrow and longing and relief. Bard opens his eyes and he's right there, exactly the way Bard remembers him, every definition of beautiful that there ever was and ever would be.

"Meleth nin," smiles Thranduil. "At last."

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> gifted to Phoebe_Hunter and LittleLynn for their Barduil ficlet collections, which are the current causes for my emotional instability.


End file.
